John Watson Versus The World
by lillyankh
Summary: If John had known he'd end up fighting Sherlock's seven vengeful exes, he'd probably have thought twice about taking that flat offer...Sherlock/John, AU
1. Why Don't You Rest For A Song

Hello! I should technically put this in the crossover section, but nobody ever checks there, and it's just as much an AU as a crossover... So, here is a Sherlock fic set in a video game slash comic book world, a la Scott Pilgrim! Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

John Watson **(Age: 39, Rating: Above Average)** walked through the park, cursing his Luck. Life after Afghanistan was treating him badly; his leg hurt, his shoulder hurt, and worst of all, he was _dreadfully_ bored. If only something – anything – would happen to break up the monotony of his life.

"John? John Watson?"

Surprised, he turned as the man approached him. "Mike Stamford?" the man prompted. **(Age: 40, Threat: Negligible)**. "We were at Bart's together."

It appeared his wish would be granted. Funny how life works like that.

-x-

When John first met his potential flatmate, he couldn't help staring. Tall, pale, and _Christ those collarbones look like he should be carved from marble_, and he read John with such terrifying certainty that the doctor couldn't help but wonder if this man had found the mythical Walkthrough. It was incredible, and even though John knew he should probably feel affronted at having his life story laid out by a total stranger, he was simply stunned.

"You are an Army Medic, invalided home from Afghanistan. Your limp is at least partly psychosomatic; the real injury being a tactical crippling of your Defence. You have a brother who cares about you," (here John's mind stumbled, but quickly understood the mistake) "but to whom you will not go to for help, possibly because of his alcohol problem, more likely because he recently left his wife. You are looking for a flatshare because you refused to keep any money earned from defeating enemies, although you kept the EXP, and you cannot afford rent on your own. I think that's enough, don't you?"

The man gave his name** (Sherlock Holmes, Rating: 9.5)** and _winked_, and John was his.

-x-

John unpacked his boxes in a sort of stupor, still in shock over the sudden dramatic change in his life. It had barely been two days since he met Sherlock Holmes, and already he had helped investigate a murder, been kidnapped by a 'concerned' individual with some scary connections, and texted a serial killer. Even now, he was just pottering about while they waited for a response from said killer.

After ten minutes or so of fairly ineffective rearranging, he gave up and sat in front of his laptop with a mug of tea. Sherlock lounged on the sofa in a position that could only be comfortable to him, nibbling on a biscuit brought up by Mrs Hudson **(Not A Housekeeper)**. John quickly went through his usual Internet routine – Facebook, email, BBC News – before checking his blog for comments. There were a couple from his friends, one from Harry making a remark about his feelings towards Sherlock that was more accurate than he'd care to admit, and one comment that appeared to be spam.

_**Sirenofthesea **writes:_

_Hello, John. I have a feeling we will be meeting soon, and I thought I should introduce myself. I am the first of seven, although I doubt you will last long enough to see us all. _

_You are not worthy. We will teach you._

_It would be a lot easier if you left._

John didn't even have time to decipher what this could mean, because the killer called and Sherlock leapt up, dashing around and impatiently waiting for John to get his coat on before zooming out the door, beaming with the thrill of the chase.

-x-

Sherlock followed the cab driver as soon as he realised what was really going on. He sat in the back of the taxi, being driven towards what may very well be his doom.

An unlikely scenario. He could out-think anyone.

"I've got a sponsor," the cabbie explained. "A … _fan_ of yours. He does worry about you so. Doesn't want you to get bored, you know. Very kind, is your fan."

"How very considerate of him."

"You don't know the half of it," the cabbie said, and smiled.

They arrived ten minutes later. The fake gun was ridiculous and unnecessary, but Sherlock played his little game. Two pills, one harmless, one deadly. The question was, _why_? Sherlock took in the cabbie's appearance; the gloves, the long jacket, the way he covered nearly every inch of skin save his face.

"You're dying," he realises. "De-resolution. Six months at best."

"Well done." The cabbie seemed impressed. He pulled off a glove, revealing mottled and pixellated skin. "Didn't catch it until it was too late. I'm a dead man walking, Mr Holmes."

"And your sponsor-"

"Your fan."

"Yes, yes, my fan – he pays a significant amount for each murder. A trust fund, for your estranged children. You could never break out of your job class, and you want a better life for them."

"You really think you're clever, don't you, Mr Holmes? Well, are you clever enough to beat me?"

He pushed one of the pills towards Sherlock.

-x-

The gunshot took them both by surprise. Sherlock jumped, the pill falling from his hand, as the cabbie crumpled to the ground. He flashed red, but he wasn't dead yet.

"Who sent you? Who?" He ground a foot into the cabbie's wound. "_Give me a name!_"

"_Moriarty._"

Sherlock fell back, horrified.

_No. Not him._

He ran out of the building, but he couldn't outrun his fear.

-x-

It took a while for Sherlock to be done with Lestrade and all his questions, but the detective finally walked over from the ambulance, discarding his shock blanket on the way.

"Good shot," he mused.

"So I heard."

"Not bad for a man with +20 Accuracy."

"+23, actually," John said, and winced.

Sherlock just smiled. "Fancy going for a drink?" he asked, and John really didn't want to think about how his heart leapt at the implications. "I could really use a double scotch right now."

The pair walked off into the sunset, and John half-expected Sherlock to take his hand.

-x-

They had barely sat down before the doors flew open with an almighty CRACK, the violence of it vibrating around the room and knocking over John's beer. He turned – the whole pub turned – to see who was there.

It was a woman, tall and sophisticated, her white blonde hair in a tight French braid and her rather impractical corset squeezing out more bust than should be physically possible.

"_John Watson!_" the woman cried, venom lacing her voice.

John opened his mouth to make a comment, but all he could manage was a rather incredulous "What?"

"John. Watson," she repeated. "I _warned _you. I told you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"

John glanced back at the man in question, who was casually leaning back in his seat and texting. "Sherlock?"

"I think you'll find it's you she's after, John," the detective said, still not bothering to look up.

"She seems to know you as well."

Sherlock finally looked up, giving the woman a quick once-over before resuming his texting. "Yes. She does."

John knew better than to expect Sherlock to elaborate without prompting. "Mind explaining why?"

The woman, who had been waiting impatiently at the door, took this opportunity to speak up. "I am his ex-girlfriend! The first in a line of seven vengeful exes, all ready to destroy you for daring to consider yourself worthy of his attention." She marched across the pub, her ridiculous boots clacking on the floor. "Sirena Lied, hello."

"Um, okay..." John was at a loss. "Sherlock, is that true? You dated her?" He was fairly certain that he'd gone insane some time last Thursday.

"If you'd call it that. Sirena attended Cambridge at the same time as I did, and required a partner for an assessed musical examination. I was the only person who could play the violin whilst wearing earplugs. She attempted to _thank_ me with a grope behind the rose bushes." He looked vaguely affronted at the memory.

"Why would you need earplugs? Was she that bad?"

Sherlock started to explain, but Sirena interrupted, smiling sinisterly. "If you must know, Dr Watson, I can give you a practical demonstration."

"Quick, John, cover your ears!" the detective yelled, panicked. It took a couple of seconds for the command to register, and that was long enough.

Sirena sang.

It was like being wrapped in a big, warm, fuzzy blanket. Sherlock was saying something, trying to get his attention, but all John could hear was the song. He just needed to rest his eyes, just for a bit, and wow that table looked so comfortable, why had he never noticed this? A nap, yes, that was exactly what he needed after this ridiculous day. He could feel himself slipping, sliding down the table as he slowly lost consciousness, but then there were hands, hands grabbing him, pulling him up, covering his ears–

He came back to awareness with an almost audible snap. Sherlock had fought against the lethargy long enough to put his hands over John's ears, but he was clearly losing the battle, eyelids drooping as he struggled to stay awake. John was surprised that Sherlock hadn't just protected himself and left John to succumb, but he didn't have much time to reflect on that because Sherlock's hands were falling away and the song was seeping back in. He cupped his own hands over his ears, wincing at the crack Sherlock's head made as it hit the table, sleep finally taking him. John stood up and away from the table, glaring at Sirena.

The fight was on.

Sirena sang louder, trying to get through to him. All the people in the pub were asleep now, and probably half the street to boot. The doctor in John quietly warned him about dropped glasses and possible injuries, but he ignored that voice in favour of his army-trained side, because he'd got himself into a bit of a dilemma.

How the bloody hell was he supposed to fight with both hands clapped over his ears?

The answer came to him as he stumbled, momentarily losing his footing as the song washed over him. Sirena looked triumphant, raising her hands to deliver the killing blow as he fell.

_Don't get ahead of yourself,_ he thought, and then he _moved_, fluid and quick and unexpected, delivering a devastating roundhouse kick to her throat.

The singing stopped.

Sirena hunched over, coughing and choking and clutching her throat as she tried to make a sound. The patrons began to stir, no longer affected by the melody. Sherlock was, naturally, the first to rise.

"John? You can probably put your hands down now."

But John couldn't hear him because – Oh. Right. He lowered his arms and then went to check on Sirena. She swiped his hands away, trying to growl menacingly but only managing a painful-sounding rasp. Her eyes drilled into him, giving the message that her voice could not convey.

"_You know the rules."_

Yes, he did. This was a duel, a challenge, and whilst the official words had not been spoken there was no real debate about it. Two enter, one leaves. To survive after being defeated was considered the ultimate shame.

He turned away.

This wasn't like the cabbie. Sirena was just a girl, confused and angry. She didn't deserve to die.

Then she charged at him, tackling him to the ground with a startled "Oof!" She pulled a flick-knife out of nowhere and went to stab him with it, but John twisted underneath her, grabbing her wrist and breaking her grip.

"Stop!" he shouted, and the power of it stilled her. "This is ridiculous. You're fighting me over a guy you barely even knew, willing to risk your life over a snog behind the bike sheds!"

"Rose bushes," Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever! The whole concept is absurd! Look, just forget about it, ok? We'll call it a draw. Go and live your life, do something with your singing, try not to send people to sleep, anything. Just not this. Don't throw it all away."

Sirena just stared at him, stunned. After a few seconds, John carefully extricated himself from her grasp, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He reached out to her throat and she flinched. "It's ok, I just want to make sure you're not badly hurt." He examined her and she watched him all the while, studying him, waiting to see him change his mind, decide to kill her.

He didn't.

"You'll be fine. You've got some bad bruising, but nothing's torn. I'd suggest not speaking for a few days." She nodded, finally standing and slowly tottering out of the pub, suddenly unsteady on her feet. John considered following her, taking her to hospital for a second opinion, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," Sherlock warned. "She might not be quite so agreeable when she regains her senses."

"Mind explaining why she challenged me in the first place?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced around the pub. Every person in the building was staring at them. "Not here," he said quietly, grabbing John by the wrist and practically dragging him into a cab waiting outside. John tried to ignore the sparks that shot up his arm from the contact, instead glaring angrily at his flatmate, who refused to talk until they were safely behind the locked door of 221B.

-x-

"Well?" John prompted as soon as they were inside.

Sherlock sighed. "It would appear that Jay is not as willing to give me up as I'd previously thought."

"Jay? I thought her name was Sirena?"

"Not _her_, you idiot. She was barely even a youthful experiment. No, Jay was my last partner. We didn't exactly split on amicable terms, and it would appear he does not appreciate anyone else pursuing a romantic relationship with me." He flopped down on the sofa, clearly irritated.

John cringed. Sure, he'd known that he could hardly hide his massive man-crush from a genius like Sherlock Holmes, or apparently restaurant owners, but he didn't realise that he was so obvious that _people who had never met him_ could see it. "So he's gathered all your exes to try and kill me?"

"Jay has been known to be a little over-dramatic."

"A_ little_ – Sherlock, he wants me dead! I've heard of jealous spurned lovers, but this is ridiculous." He pauses, realising something. "Hang on a minute. That girl who brought you coffee at the Morgue, Molly – she has a crush on you too."

"Obviously."

"So why doesn't _she_ have some League of Exes after her?"

The look Sherlock gave him was one of total confusion. It was as if he couldn't even comprehend how John could be that stupid. John looked down, unable to deal with Sherlock's condescension, but the other man stood and walked towards him, capturing his face and forcing John to look back at him.

"Because," Sherlock explained, his eyes flicking down to John's mouth, "I'm not interested in Molly."

John froze. "You're not… but that means..."

"Yes?"

"You... you are interested in _me_?"

"Knew you'd get there eventually."

"Um, I didn't – I never – oh."

"Alright?"

"Do you know, I think I am," John said, and kissed him.

The kiss was deep and powerful and John was fairly sure he could hear a choir of angels singing somewhere, except there's nothing angelic about what Sherlock could do with his tongue and _oh God he's good at that._

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock called down, breaking away for air with a predatory look in his eye. "I don't think we'll be needing that second room after all."

-x-

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Reviews are much loved.


	2. It Might Be Cypher To Stay Inside

Here's chapter two, as promised! A little shameless self-promotion here: in case you didn't see it, I wrote a new Sherlock fic for Halloween. It's called SM CASE FILES. Check it out if you haven't already.

Anyway, on with the fic!

* * *

John awoke slowly, his mind enveloped in fog and his body enveloped by Sherlock. It was rather comfortable. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, nuzzling into the other man's chest, but he had a job interview to go to. After a month spent dashing around for zero pay and a series of rather humiliating rows with an automated shopkeeper, it seemed necessary to get a more stable means of employment. He spent a few minutes working out exactly how to extract himself from the tangled mess that was Sherlock's limbs, a task John suspected was quite so difficult because Sherlock was only pretending to be asleep. Finally free, he slipped on a dressing gown and plodded in the general direction of the kitchen, intending to make a cup of tea.

As soon as he reached the living room, he froze.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, John retreated back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was now getting dressed. John was momentarily distracted by his partner's collarbones. They were begging to be licked. Sherlock definitely noticed his attention, smirking as he left the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

"Was there something you wanted, John, or did you come back purely to ogle me?"

"I didn't – oh, it's not even worth denying, is it?" He collected himself, finally remembering why he was there.

"I was wondering why the hell Lestrade is passed out on our sofa."

If Sherlock was surprised by this, he didn't show it. "I would suspect that he has been kicked out by his wife for coming home drunk again."

"Is that 'again' for coming home drunk or for being kicked out?"

"Both, obviously."

"Right. So why is he on _our_ sofa?"

"I have housed him before. Frankly, in the state he would have been in, I'm amazed he remembered I'd moved. I suppose Mrs Hudson would have let him in; he hasn't got a key for this flat."

John paused, overwhelmed by the stupid number of questions those statements raised. Eventually, he asked the most pressing one. "Sherlock... Lestrade isn't... you and him didn't...?"

"Date? Goodness, no. His wife is far too terrifying."

John laughed. The idea of Sherlock being scared of _anyone_ was absurd. He was, however, relieved to know that he wouldn't have to take down Sherlock's sort-of boss any time soon. Sure, he hadn't encountered any exes after the first one, but there was no need to tempt fate. "Alright then. I suppose I'd better check on that crazy lump."

Lestrade hadn't moved an inch, so John went into the kitchen to make him some toast. Years of being Harry's late-night chauffeur had taught him some rather effective hangover cures. After checking the fridge **(Contents: 1 x jar of jam, 3 x mouldy tomatoes, 1 x human arm)** he found a Remedy at the back of a cupboard, hidden inside a box of coffee creamers. He didn't want to know where the coffee creamers were.

By the time the toast popped up and the kettle boiled, Sherlock had come in and resumed work on an experiment. He poured random liquids and chemicals into a beaker above a Bunsen burner, the colour shifting from blue to red to orange. For all John could tell, Sherlock could be creating a deadly poison. Or making breakfast. Sighing, he grabbed a tray of toast, tea and Remedy and made his way towards the unconscious Lestrade.

Something occurred to him, and he paused. "Sherlock..."

"Mm?"

"Since we seem to be housing Lestrade, and it's a bit formal to call him by his surname all the time, what's his first name?"

"Nobody knows." Sherlock added a splash of lemon juice to his concoction, making it fizz. "Even his wife calls him Lestrade."

"What? That's absurd! Can't you, I don't know, look up his character sheet or something?"

"People have tried. The most anyone can glean is that it begins with G. He thinks it might be Gary. Personally, I see him as more of a Gregory."

"...Right. I'll just call him Lestrade, then." John put the tray on the table and shook the inspector's shoulder. "Come on, up you get."

Lestrade groaned and attempted to burrow underneath the arm of the sofa. John sighed and waved the toast near Lestrade's face, hoping that the smell would rouse him, even if it did make him sick.

The older man stirred, blearily staring up at him. "John? Oh yeah, you live with Sherlock." John couldn't help a small smile at that, something Lestrade didn't miss. "Wait, you and him? Sherlock, you're ruthless! How long?"

"Erm, since just after that whole thing with the serial suicides. I'm surprised you hadn't worked it out already, actually."

"Oh please, John," Sherlock called from the kitchen. "Don't give him too much credit."

"Oi!" Lestrade protested. "In my defence, we're all usually much more focussed on bodies and murder when I see you." He patted John limply on the arm. "Nah, seriously, good for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd rather like to die now." He tried to go back to sleep, but John stopped him.

"Ah, none of that. You can sleep if you want, but you have to drink this first." John thrust the Remedy at Lestrade, who grumbled but took it.

"Thanks, mum."

"I think you'll find this is my 'medic' role." John waited until Lestrade had drained the drink before heading back to the bathroom. "Right, I've got to get ready. Try not to be sick all over the carpet."

Lestrade saluted him with his mug of tea.

From the kitchen, there came a startled POOF. Concerned, John cautiously peered in to see Sherlock, unharmed but his face blackened with soot, blinking dazedly. He was still holding the smoking remains of a conical flask. "I may have made a slight miscalculation," he admitted.

John had the strangest feeling that it was going to be one of those days.

-x-

The interview was going well, all things considered. Sarah seemed rather impressed by John's stats, and likely by John himself, if the little love-hearts were any clue. However, John's phone had been vibrating against his leg for the last five minutes, and he didn't know how long Sherlock's patience would hold out.

"Well, John," Sarah said, smiling warmly. "As long as you think you can cope with the tedium of working here after Afghanistan, I see no reason why you can't start on Monday."

"Thank you very much."

"No problem at all." She hesitated for a second. "Since you're going to be working with me and everything, I was thinking, maybe we should get to know each other. Go for a coffee or something."

"Um..."

A muffled _"You can't go in there, sir!"_ was all the warning John got before Sherlock burst into the room, his long coat flaring dramatically behind him.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. "We have a _case_! Come on, you must be done with this now. I need you!"

John tried to protest, but Sherlock grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of the room. He just had time to say "See you on Monday!" to a now rather forlorn-looking Sarah before he was whisked away onto the streets of London. They were in a taxi before he could even catch his breath.

-x-

Talking to Sebastian, John found it very difficult not to bring up the old joke about the collective noun for bankers. The man practically oozed sleaze.

"So, Sherlock, I see you've got yourself another lackey."

"Boyfriend, actually," John corrected, noting how Sebastian faltered.

"Right, yes, good for you and all that."

"I think congratulations are in order for you, as well, Sebastian," Sherlock said. "You've levelled up twice in the past month, and to quite a respectable position, too."

Sebastian pointed a finger at him, his smile clearly fake. "You're doing that _thing_ again. We used to hate him. He could tell if you'd been on power-ups just by looking at your shoes. Go on then, what gave it away?"

Sherlock fidgeted slightly, something that most people wouldn't notice but John knew was a sign of his anger. He gently took the detective's hand, calming him.

"The windows," Sherlock explained. "They've been replaced recently, likely because the last ones gave an inferior view. The plant in the corner is also a new addition, brought in between six and nine days after the windows were replaced, if the tilting of the flowers is to be believed."

"Ah, very good... I see you are on top form. Perhaps you'd be able to solve this little mystery of mine, then?"

"I'm certain of it."

"One of my men, a Mr Edward Van Coon, has vanished off the face of the earth. He came to work on Tuesday, then left halfway through his shift and hasn't been seen since. We've tried contacting him, but can't get through."

"I will need to see his workplace."

"Sure, sure. My secretary will show you around; I'd do it myself, but you know how it is."

They left the office, John resolving that he would punch Sebastian in the face if the opportunity ever presented itself.

Van Coon's desk was innocuous, just a few personal effects to distinguish it from the hundred other desks in the sea of cubicles. Sherlock quickly rifled through all the drawers, searching for clues. Suddenly, he ducked under the desk, grabbing the bin and up-ending it on the table. A few mouldy sandwiches, three tissues and a crumpled piece of paper fell out.

"Honestly," Sherlock said, more to himself than anyone else. "If they're going to leave evidence just lying around then I don't know why I bother." He smoothed out the paper.

It was a series of lines and circles. John thought it looked like someone had just written 'lol' over and over for no real reason other than to make his head hurt. "What is it?"

"It's binary. Someone has written a code in binary."

"Can you read it?"

"I can tell what the numbers are, yes, but not what they reference. They're in pairs, and one of the pairs is repeated, which could mean the same letter but is more likely the same word. It's a very old cypher method. Possibly... Bible verses? No, too obvious. Page references, then. The number of the page, and then the second number denotes a word on that page. We'd need to know what book they were using before we can decipher this."

"And Van Coon would have this book?"

"Yes. We'll have to look around his house. I'm sure Sebastian will be able to give us the address."

-x-

John could now add breaking-and-entering to the list of Things I Didn't Think I'd Be Doing Today. He wandered around the flat, waiting for Sherlock to make another brilliant deduction based on a piece of toast or something. After randomly opening and closing kitchen cabinets for a bit, John went over to the bookshelf. "So this code, it's based on a book?"

"Yes," Sherlock called from the bathroom.

"Shouldn't we, I don't know, start going through all his books?"

"I had considered that. I called a removal company on the way here who will pick them up and take them back to our flat. I'll leave the door unlocked when we leave. I do not plan on staying here any longer than necessary."

"...Right."

There was silence for a while, and then, "Aha!" Sherlock came back from the bathroom, brandishing a slightly singed piece of paper. "It's another code. This time, he tried to get rid of it, but I can still make out the numbers." He stopped as his mobile rang.

"Hello? I'm sorry, what? Well, that's frankly ludicrous. If you plan on hiring me again, at least ensure that there is a _genuine_ mystery, please." He hung up.

"Well?"

"That was Sebastian. That idiot Van Coon just turned up at work. Apparently, there'd been a family emergency, which I do not believe in the slightest. No, the reason for his disappearance lies somewhere in these... John, look out!"

John wasn't fast enough. Whoever Sherlock had seen had grabbed him from behind and was violently twisting his arms. John deliberately buckled his knees, trying to gain leverage, but his attacker changed tactics and began to choke him. He grabbed at the hands around his neck, his vision sparking from lack of oxygen, but Sherlock was there first, snarling and throwing himself bodily at the man. Dislodged, the attacker fled, jumping out of the open window. Sherlock locked the window before going to check on John.

"Sherlock, what just happened?" he asked, coughing.

"I think that might have been my second ex."

"Oh."

And if they had desperate, fumbling, I'm-so-glad-you're-not-dead sex right there, on the carpet – well, that was their prerogative.

They did make sure to be gone before the removal people arrived, though.

-x-

They had found another message on the way home. John took a photo with his phone and they printed it out as soon as they could. If the code was appearing after Van Coon's return, there were still developments in the case.

Lestrade had still been recovering on their sofa, and was quite alarmed to find himself nearly buried under boxes and boxes of books. He agreed to help out; his hangover had dissipated and he was just wasting time anyway. For once, Sherlock didn't complain – they needed to get the books back to Van Coon's flat as soon as possible, and any extra help was welcome.

Sherlock stared at the pages before him, as if he could gain their meaning through sheer force of will. He knew that they were numbers, and that these numbers referenced pages in a book that the victim had, but which book? It was driving him insane, but at the same time the challenge of it all excited him, drove him on.

_Ah. Of course._ That was what this was. A challenge. From a _concerned_ individual.

Sherlock knew which book to look for. He also knew that it wasn't in Van Coon's possession; he would have noticed. Perhaps the man had taken it with him when he left.

Without a second thought, Sherlock swept the papers up in his arms and ran out of the door.

John blinked, stunned by the sudden departure, and turned to Lestrade. "So. Takeaway?"

-x-

Sherlock burst into the building, thanking the Heavens for twenty-four hour libraries. He dashed up the stairs, ignoring the rather heated looks from the staff, and quickly located the book he needed. He sat down at a table, _Mass Killers_ in front of him.

Jay had given it to him as an anniversary present, before things went...unsavoury. Sherlock's own copy had been damaged beyond repair in a fire-related experiment, along with all the other gifts he had received from Jay over the years. Most people would consider a book detailing the methods of the world's most notorious serial killers to be a rather inappropriate present, but then Sherlock wasn't most people. He opened the book and began his translation.

First, the message left at Van Coon's desk. Sherlock flipped through the pages at lightning speed, writing down the words as he found them.

_Y**ou owe me. Need your house to hide a man. Five days, maximum. You will be moved.**_

Then, the half-charred message found in his house. This one appeared to be directed at their assailant.

_**When they come snooping, attack. If met with resistance, run. Follow the rules.**_

Finally, the message they'd seen on the wall of a train station. This one was very long.

_**Hello sexy**_**,**it began. If Sherlock was a fearful man, those two words would have made his blood run cold. This message was for him.

_**Like the code? Should hold off the boredom. Does your new man do that? Keep you entertained? He won't for long. Leave him. Come back. You know you need it. Could kill him if I wanted. But you would be upset. Honest duels are legal. Doesn't matter if they kill him. Isn't that exciting?**_

Sherlock frowned. Jay had always been the one person he could never figure out. He said he wouldn't kill John, but was willing to allow other murders to happen through those he sponsored. Why? Unless – oh, of course! Jay always did like his little power plays. He didn't see John as important; he was just a pawn to be pushed around. Jay was vain enough to think that John wasn't even worth the effort it would take to kill him illegally. And as long as they stuck to the rules, so would Jay. He'd set up crimes for Sherlock and battles for John.

He put the book away and left the library, refusing to acknowledge the one last thought niggling at the back of his mind.

_What if he changes the rules?_

-x-

When he opened the front door, John expected to be greeted with tasty food. Instead, he got a face full of orange glitter.

_Sleeping powder_, he thought. _Bollocks._ He passed out.

-x-

Someone was shaking him, trying to wake him up. This was unacceptable.

"John? John!" He knew that voice all too well.

"Piss off," he mumbled. "I don't care if you've blown up the kitchen."

"_John_." Something wet and foul tasting was thrown on his face, snapping him back into consciousness.

"Oh. Oh dear."

He was in what could only be described as a fighting ring, the dusty wooden walls rising far above his head. He was tied to a chair, and Sherlock was standing over him, holding a towel. If John didn't know any better, he would swear the man looked _concerned_. To his right was an equally tied up and still asleep Lestrade. The bruises decorating his face suggested he had put up a slightly better fight than John.

"What happened?"

Sherlock straightened up, apparently satisfied now that John was awake. "The last piece of graffiti was a message about you. By the time I had decoded it and come back to the flat, you had already been abducted. I deduced that this was the most likely place where you would be taken and made my way here. The guards let me in."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm guessing this is something to do with Jay?"

Lestrade suddenly sputtered, his whole body tensing as his eyes flew open. "Where is he? I'll kill him!"

"Calm yourself, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Jay is not here, obviously." **('Obviously' count: 17)** "No, he's set up a rather unusual little game to try and get John out of the picture."

"Right. And this would be?"

"He's getting all my ex-partners to challenge John to duels, whilst also creating interesting cases to distract me."

"And you're not worried that he'll try to-"

"Not if we keep playing the game. As long as he doesn't get bored, we should be reasonably safe."

"Sherlock, I don't even get why he's bothering with the game. If he wants to get rid of John, or get you back, all he-"

"_Yes_, I am aware of that, thank you," Sherlock snapped. That was the second time he'd interrupted Lestrade. Clearly, there was something he didn't want John to know. "He wants me to _choose_ him over John," the detective continued. "Either from grief or boredom, he plans for me to go back to him. This will not happen."

"I hope you're right, Sherlock."

"I always am."

John was about to ask something along the lines of _what the hell are you on about_ when a side panel of the ring swung open, revealing a tall, muscular man dressed in black. He looked a bit like a ninja.

"He's Chinese, John, not Japanese," Sherlock pointed out. "And the stereotypical ninja garb is actually based on the clothing of stage hands. A real ninja would look like a normal person."

"Thanks for the cultural lesson. How do you know that and not know who James Bond is?"

Sherlock started to reply, but was cut off by the newcomer. "John Watson!"

"Oh, here we go again... look, if we're going to do this, can you at least untie me?"

The man considered this for a second, before nodding. Sherlock loosened the rope and freed John.

Lestrade bucked a little in his chair. "What about me?"

Confused, Sherlock turned to him. "You're not in the fight."

"Neither are you!"

"Yes, but I'm far less likely to join in."

The challenger tapped his foot. "Are you done? I'm supposed to kill John now."

John stood, rubbing his wrists and sighing. "Of course you are. Can I at least get your name?"

"My name," the man said, striking a ridiculous pose, "is Fai Ting, of the Yu family."

John raised an eyebrow. "OK then. I suppose we should get this over with." He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and assumed a fighting stance. Behind him, Sherlock sat down on the chair, watching with detached amusement. Lestrade was still tied up, but he'd stopped struggling.

The fight was on.

John was fairly sure Fai literally _flew_ across the ring, his arm outstretched in what appeared to be a telegraph punch but was actually a cunning feint. John tried to deflect it, only to be met with a steely kick to the abdomen. Winded, he swung at his opponent, who dodged deftly under the jab, catching John with a nasty uppercut. John might have military combat training, but Fai was clearly a martial arts expert.

"So what's the – oof – the story behind this guy?" John asked Sherlock, taking a flying kick to the ribs in the process. He tried tripping Fai as he stepped back, but found himself tripped instead, barely keeping his footing.

Sherlock was texting again. Who could he be talking to? "Fai was hired to be my sparring partner. He ended up becoming my partner in other areas as well." John ducked as a foot flew over his head. "I ended it because Mummy disapproved of fraternising with the help."

"I see." John bobbed and weaved, trying to find an opening. "Oh, would you just _stand still?_"

"Have you tried actually hitting him, John?" Lestrade called.

Annoyed, John turned to the inspector. "Why don't you-"

In hindsight, it was a mistake to turn his back on Fai. John realised this as he sailed ungracefully through the air, landing with a THUMP and skidding along the dusty ground until he was at Sherlock's feet. "Ow."

Sherlock poked him with his shoe. "Hurry up, John. I'm bored."

John twisted so that he was staring up at his partner. "Seriously? Me getting my arse handed to me isn't entertaining enough for you? Maybe if you gave me a hand..."

"You know how it is. I'm not supposed to interfere."

"There's a difference between 'not interfering' and 'letting me get pasted'."

"Kick him in the balls!"

"Yes, thank you, Lestrade. I hadn't thought of that one."

Making it quite clear that he felt this was beneath him, Sherlock bent down and hoisted John back up, giving him a little shove back into the combat zone. John stumbled a bit before he realised what had happened.

Sherlock had slipped his phone into John's pocket.

John held a hand up to halt Fai, leaning against the wall like his legs couldn't support him (which required less acting than he'd admit) and subtly palmed the phone. As if wiping his forehead, he brought his hand up and read the display.

_**He becomes erratic when offended. Compare him to another martial artist. When he rushes you, sidestep and take him down. SH.**_

_Easier typed than done,_ John thought. Still, worth a try. He cleared his throat and pushed away from the wall. "Hey, it's Fai, right?"

The man hesitated, wary. "Yes..."

"You're quite good at this kung fu stuff. Makes me feel like I'm fighting Jackie Chan. Well, Jackie Chan would be much better, but still-"

John wasn't quite prepared for the ferocity with which Fai came running at him. His eyes were aflame, his mouth frothing with venom and his hands reaching out to strangle John as he pelted across the arena. John waited carefully, making sure he got the timing just right, and then-

MISS

Fai went straight past him and collided painfully with the wall, actually going _through_ the wooden planks and leaving a Fai-shaped hole. Fai himself lay twitching on the other side, out for the count.

"I think we're done here," John said, dusting himself off and going to untie Lestrade. "Sherlock, lead the way."

The three of them walked – or, in John's case, hobbled – out of the warehouse. Once outside, John hailed a taxi and they bundled in. "We never did get that dinner, did we? What do you guys say to a restaurant?"

They spent a few minutes arguing over locations before finally picking a new Italian place Lestrade had read about in the papers.

As the taxi drove off, its occupants did not notice the plainly dressed, rather unassuming man enter the warehouse. Nor did they hear the single shot that rang out, echoing through the building long after the man had left.

* * *

Not sure when the next chapter will be, but I'll try to get it done as soon as.

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